Title: To Describe
Summary: Spoilers for 'The Yellow Admiral' and 'The Hundred Days'. Stephen contemplates his sudden recovery from the loss of Diana, and his unexpected fall for another.
Note: I'm becoming more drabble-y by the day. Ah, well. Shortness, to be expected. Mostly inspired by Thig, who first brought up the aspect of another wife for Stephen (which is also in the books), and 'When It Rains, It Pours' by Black Rose Diary (I heart that song).
'Should you ever need – well, if you need to talk on it...' Jack's voice had trailed off miserably, and his fingertips had tapped against the door's pane hesitantly before their owner had nodded and trudged away.
Stephen thought on it, to be sure, but to talk on it would mean that he was more comfortable with the subject, which was not true in the least. He sighed to himself, comfortable in the ship's cockpit, and reached for the package of coca leaves on the shelf above.
The doctor's new favourite relaxant was placed contentedly on top of a copy of The Iliad. At first, the leaves sat in his hand, and he gazed at them blankly. The feeling in his pharynx had dulled considerably, and their effects had decreased with it. Now, it seemed, the negatives vastly overpowered the positives. A grimace replaced the indifference that usually reigned over his features, and he replaced the leaves to their usual place.
By doing so, Maturin rediscovered Homer's epic. He smiled, ever so slightly, and flipped through the edition – French, and thankfully not Pope's, to which he was rather adverse. The surgeon peered through the pages, the fond, well-perused pages.
He did so prefer The Iliad to The Odyssey – the Iliad, a testament to fidelity, to faith. A living proclamation, declaration, against wanton promiscuity. In comparison, the tale of Ulysses's return seemed worthy of a brothel, full of betrayals, of adultery.
Stephen's smile faded. Despite the fact that Diana ("God rest her," he thought, crossing himself) had passed away, and he a widower, it still felt disloyal to – to feel again. An image that had not been willingly summoned (or had it?) arose in his mind's eye: a familiar, beloved reflection. A sense of guilt washed over him. He felt wretched, wherever either of them were concerned.
It almost felt as 'though to pursue Mrs Wood would be a disrespect on his part. Aside from the fact that she was already married – and Christine was faithful, as far as Stephen knew –, it was troubling to think that Stephen had thought of her, quite nearly in the exact same context, while Diana still drew breath. The fondness, the – dare he even think it? – love, that he felt for Christine Wood seemed, felt, taboo.
Could he love again?
It was difficult to say. His heart had wholly belonged to Diana, as the years had proved. He had been under her spell, and any offhand word held him under her sway. He was utterly hers.
Yet this new feeling brought doubt to his former resolve to remain a bachelor for the rest of his days. He no longer wanted to content himself to the simple care of Brigid, of casual visits to the Society, no more. Stephen felt himself – there was no other way to express it – feel. It was distressing, that this simple sentiment could not be properly conveyed.
'To describe,' thought Stephen. 'Once, I think, it was held as one of the more simplistic endeavours. Now, I cannot even bring myself to a proper attempt.'
A general feeling of idiocy replaced his intent contemplation. It did not matter. Mrs Wood was – well, she was Mrs Wood. Had she not been married, she would have more or less turned him down, despite. He had no advantage in family, in person, in purse – it was a useless enterprise.
'Yes,' he thought, deliberately, by way of banishing all these pervading thoughts. 'I, 'though born into fair family in terms of the land of Catalonia, am yet illegitimate. My person hardly possesses any distinctive, attractive feature, whether physical or otherwise. Wealth, while not inconsiderable, is scarce enough to tempt any well-bred creature.' For the first time, in a long time, Stephen could feel his emotions stretching to extents that he could not control.
While he did think these things of his own will, and knowing full well what effect they would have, Stephen could not help but feel himself sink into melancholy.
Summary: Spoilers for 'The Yellow Admiral' and 'The Hundred Days'. Stephen contemplates his sudden recovery from the loss of Diana, and his unexpected fall for another.
Note: I'm becoming more drabble-y by the day. Ah, well. Shortness, to be expected. Mostly inspired by Thig, who first brought up the aspect of another wife for Stephen (which is also in the books), and 'When It Rains, It Pours' by Black Rose Diary (I heart that song).
'Should you ever need – well, if you need to talk on it...' Jack's voice had trailed off miserably, and his fingertips had tapped against the door's pane hesitantly before their owner had nodded and trudged away.
Stephen thought on it, to be sure, but to talk on it would mean that he was more comfortable with the subject, which was not true in the least. He sighed to himself, comfortable in the ship's cockpit, and reached for the package of coca leaves on the shelf above.
The doctor's new favourite relaxant was placed contentedly on top of a copy of The Iliad. At first, the leaves sat in his hand, and he gazed at them blankly. The feeling in his pharynx had dulled considerably, and their effects had decreased with it. Now, it seemed, the negatives vastly overpowered the positives. A grimace replaced the indifference that usually reigned over his features, and he replaced the leaves to their usual place.
By doing so, Maturin rediscovered Homer's epic. He smiled, ever so slightly, and flipped through the edition – French, and thankfully not Pope's, to which he was rather adverse. The surgeon peered through the pages, the fond, well-perused pages.
He did so prefer The Iliad to The Odyssey – the Iliad, a testament to fidelity, to faith. A living proclamation, declaration, against wanton promiscuity. In comparison, the tale of Ulysses's return seemed worthy of a brothel, full of betrayals, of adultery.
Stephen's smile faded. Despite the fact that Diana ("God rest her," he thought, crossing himself) had passed away, and he a widower, it still felt disloyal to – to feel again. An image that had not been willingly summoned (or had it?) arose in his mind's eye: a familiar, beloved reflection. A sense of guilt washed over him. He felt wretched, wherever either of them were concerned.
It almost felt as 'though to pursue Mrs Wood would be a disrespect on his part. Aside from the fact that she was already married – and Christine was faithful, as far as Stephen knew –, it was troubling to think that Stephen had thought of her, quite nearly in the exact same context, while Diana still drew breath. The fondness, the – dare he even think it? – love, that he felt for Christine Wood seemed, felt, taboo.
Could he love again?
It was difficult to say. His heart had wholly belonged to Diana, as the years had proved. He had been under her spell, and any offhand word held him under her sway. He was utterly hers.
Yet this new feeling brought doubt to his former resolve to remain a bachelor for the rest of his days. He no longer wanted to content himself to the simple care of Brigid, of casual visits to the Society, no more. Stephen felt himself – there was no other way to express it – feel. It was distressing, that this simple sentiment could not be properly conveyed.
'To describe,' thought Stephen. 'Once, I think, it was held as one of the more simplistic endeavours. Now, I cannot even bring myself to a proper attempt.'
A general feeling of idiocy replaced his intent contemplation. It did not matter. Mrs Wood was – well, she was Mrs Wood. Had she not been married, she would have more or less turned him down, despite. He had no advantage in family, in person, in purse – it was a useless enterprise.
'Yes,' he thought, deliberately, by way of banishing all these pervading thoughts. 'I, 'though born into fair family in terms of the land of Catalonia, am yet illegitimate. My person hardly possesses any distinctive, attractive feature, whether physical or otherwise. Wealth, while not inconsiderable, is scarce enough to tempt any well-bred creature.' For the first time, in a long time, Stephen could feel his emotions stretching to extents that he could not control.
While he did think these things of his own will, and knowing full well what effect they would have, Stephen could not help but feel himself sink into melancholy.